Page 1 of Where Broken Wings Fly

PROLOGUE - WILLOW

OUTRUN MYSELF - JACK KAYS & TRAVIS BARKER

Smile.

Pretend you like it.

Pretend you love it.

Bag the cheque.

The day I set foot in my first strip joint, driven by starvation and desperation, I was taught one invaluable lesson.

Life is nothing without suffering.

I’m not talking about the kind of pain that you discuss over fancy coffee and a box of tissues. Nor the kind that wins expensive book deals or documentaries on prime-time television.

I’m talking about the quiet kind of suffering, reserved for the empty space between existing and living. Not pretty. Not sellable. Not inspirational. It’s more of a deafening ache that never abates.

I learned to occupy that space from a young age. Doing homework amongst the discarded needles and breathing in secondhand fumes while my father shot up instead of, you know, being a fucking parent.

I’m still here, years later.

Even though he’s dead, life never got better.

Staring into the depths of my bright, hazel eyes, I blink tears aside. The outfit I’ve been assigned to wear tonight is unbearable. A string bikini top and matching thong, with towering high heels that I haven’t quite mastered walking in. This is only my third shift.

“Five minutes!” Mario yells. “Move it, sluts!”

Shaking myself out of it, I swipe bright-red lipstick across my generous pout. My coal-black hair lies in natural ringlets, cascading down my near-skeletal frame. I haven’t got the curves of the other girls, who are all older than me.

I had to beg Mario for a job and kiss his slimy ass to convince him to overlook my age. While everyone I used to know finishes school and begins to plan for their bright, promising futures, I’m getting ready to take my clothes off and give perverts lap dances.

Damn, Willow.

This is a low point.

Working here is a last resort, despite the handwritten letter screaming at me from my discarded coat pocket. The words have played on repeat in my head ever since.

I’d rather sell my soul than go searching for some long-lost relative of my father who is trying to lure me in. I have enough problems to deal with because of him.

“You ready, Willow?” Lia throws an arm around my waist. “Come on, you don’t want to piss off Mario tonight. He’s on the warpath and will only dock your wages for it.”

“Sure,” I mutter.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing. Just didn’t sleep well.”

With a wink, she flourishes a clear baggie, full of white powder. “Have a bump. It’ll take the edge off. Trade secret.”

She tips some onto the back of her hand before snorting it up. Shaking my head, I inch backwards, nearly falling straight on my ass in these stupid heels.

“I’m fine, thanks. I’ll grab a shot or something.”

“You sure?” She frowns.

“Yeah. See you out there.”

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